He's Him
by CaityJH
Summary: One's tired. One's sad. One's scared, and one's angry. And the other - he's gone.
1. He's Tired

_S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Reviews are greatly appreciated._

 **He's Him**

Chapter 1

 **He's Tired**

He's tired.

He works a lot; he's the one who pays the bills.

But lately, his boss keeps giving him days off, complete with pay and a sad smile, practically dripping with pity.

"Go on, spend some with your brother." Mitch had said. "We'll be fine without you for a few days. Go."

He should be happy. Should be grateful for the free opportunity, should be relieved his sore back could have some time to rest and heal. But he's not.

He's tired.

He wants to work. _Needs_ to work. Needs to hammer those nails, needs to climb those tall ladders, needs to carry those heavy bundles of roofing. He needs the work to keep his hands busy, keep his mind running, keep the distraction. It keeps his aching thoughts away, keeps them zipped inside the pocket of his tool belt. But Mitch gave him a day off. His tool belt is sitting on the living room floor, it's pockets unzipped, his thoughts free to roam.

He lays in bed, listening to the rain hitting the house seeming to have the power to tear down the walls. But he doesn't mind. He likes the sound of the rain downfall. It drowns out the muffled sobs coming from a room down the hall. He closes his eyes, but sleep doesn't come.

God, he's so tired.

No matter how much coffee he pours down his throat, no matter how strong he makes it, attempting to give himself a powerful boost, it's in vain. His eyelids still droop, his head still hangs low. He's still tired.

He tries to keep moving. _Has_ to keep moving. Without the hammer in his hands, without the roofing under his arm, there isn't much else to do. He cooks and cleans and washes, he walks laps around the small house, careful to avoid the closed door down the hallway.

He cooks the meals. Breakfast, dinner, supper. It's not his turn; frankly he's lost track of who's turn it is, but it's not like he has a choice. His brother isn't likely to volunteer to prepare the food. He isn't likely to come out of that room any time soon as it is.

He sets the table. Three plates. Three glasses. Three forks and three knifes. Three servings. Always three. Always enough for three.

But he eats alone.

He's so tired.

His house is empty. It's empty. He swears you can hear the echo of your own thoughts. His visitors are unheard from, leaving an empty couch behind. He sometimes thinks they're there, that the TV is playing loudly, that cards scatter the wooden coffee table, that empty beer bottles sit on the floor, that the couch is sat on. He always looks. Always checks, just to make sure it's just his imagination. It is. There's no one on the couch.

His house is empty. Even if his brother is just down the hall, tangled in sheets. His house is empty.

He carries the boxes to the basement. They're full, everything he could find stuffed inside them. Black ink is scrawled across the front in his handwriting, labeling them. It was difficult, labeling the boxes. Shoving everything in a box and thinking of some word to characterize it. How could he? How was he just supposed to just throw all the memories into a cardboard container, and think of one, pathetic word to describe them? A word. That's what it came down to. A fucking word. He's did it once before. It should be easy. But it's far from it.

The boxes are heavy. Real heavy, hard to carry. At one point he dropped one of the boxes on the dusty weight scale in the bathroom, testing. The numbers are low. Surprisingly low. But the boxes remain heavy, dragging on his muscled arms like it drags on the beating organ in his chest.

He's worn out. Out of breath.

Tired.

He's asked back to work. In truth, he was the one who asked, but with a sigh and a moment of silence from the phone's speaker, Mitch had hesitantly agreed. But agreed nonetheless, and he's going to take it. He's glad. He needs to get away, away from the empty house and the muffled cries down the hall. He needs to busy his hands, needs the distraction, needs to tuck his hurtful thoughts back away into the pocket of his tool belt. So he focuses on the giant hole in the roof of a lady's house.

His pickup breaks down on his way home, unable to restart and get going. He's confused and frustrated. Tired.

He checks the tires, checks the gas and checks in under the hood, but everything seems somewhat in place. He doesn't know much about cars, but nothing looked "broken" to him. Then again, he isn't the mechanic. He calls his friend's house from a nearby payphone. He has no choice. He wasn't going to get the truck running on his own, and he knows the phone inside his own house would be ignored.

The phone dials, and a feminine voice greets him. He asks the girl where her brother is.

"I'm sorry, he's, uh, he's asleep again. Just got in."

Her answer is disappointing.

"I can fetch him if you like, I'm sure he's not that knocked out."

But he declines. Even if she could get him up, a drunk twenty-year-old couldn't help him. He says goodbye, hangs up the phone.

He leaves his truck on the side of the road, grabs his things, locks the doors, and walks home.

By the time he gets home, he's tired. Really tired.

His home is still empty. No music booms from the radio, no voice sings along, no television series plays on the TV. His brother remains down the hall. His house is empty.

But damn, his mailbox isn't. The rusty metal box is filled with bills. New and old.

Electric bills, water bills, insurance bills, and more, heavy in his hand. One envelope stands out. One he's only had inside his mailbox once. One heavier than the rest. It hurts him to even touch it.

He tears it open, tossing the others on the counter.

He shuts his eyes.

Who knew a casket and a name engraved stone would cost so much.

He sighs, so tired, and takes out a frying pan.

He fries three eggs. It's the only thing he has. Not much, but his appetite is small anyways. He sets the table with three plates, and fills them up.

One egg-sandwich.

One hardboiled.

One with grape jelly.

He sits down, eats his own, and cleans up. He throws one into the trash, the food cold and untouched, and brings the other down the hall. Sets it on the bed table.

He showers, brushes his teeth.

He checks the living room, scanning the couch for any overnight visitors. It's empty.

He goes down the hall. Opens the shut door.

He says goodnight. He doesn't get a reply.

He heads to his room, removes his shirt, pulls on sweats. He lays on his bed, listening to the heavy downfall outside his window.

He's tired.

He closes his eyes, but sleep is faraway. Sleep doesn't come.

His alarm buzzes.

He opens his eyes, morning sunlight hitting them.

He gets up. Yawns.

Listens to the sobs from down the hall.

Drinks his coffee, makes it strong.

Doesn't make breakfast. His fridge is empty.

Grabs his tool belt. Shoves his thoughts inside.

Leaves his empty house, takes the bus to work.

He sighs.

He's Darry.

And he's so fucking tired.


	2. He's Sad

_S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Reviews are greatly appreciated._

 **He's Him**

Chapter 2

 **He's Sad**

He's sad.

His girl kicked him to the curb. Called him a miserable drunk and stormed off in her car. He agrees.

But she's the least of his worries.

Or at least, he assumes she is. His thoughts and memories are lost at the bottom of a glass bottle. It makes him dizzy, makes him forget about his girl. Makes him forget about a lot of things.

Too bad it doesn't last forever.

Then the memories come rushing back, along with the sadness he tries so hard to drown away.

He's so sad.

His ma is upset. She doesn't like it when he comes home late. Truth is, those nights are hard to remember. His ma understands. She knows he's sad. Knows why, too. But she has two children. One's still underage, who his ma is afraid will catch some things off of him, off her daughter's older brother. His ma is worried for both her children. Knows how powerful sadness can be. Knows how hard it is to push away. She's not sure how to make it better.

So he sleeps someplace else. He's guilty, wondering how much his little sister had saw, wondering how much he had already engraved into her teenage mind. So he moves out, afraid the sadness might be contagious. Because that's the last thing he wants, his baby sis feeling the pain he already feels. He won't let that happen. Not to his sister, not to his ma.

He heads to Buck's. The room he's given is familiar. Too familiar. And then it hits him. He notices the leather jacket, the brand of tobacco and the magazines scattering the messy bed.

He knows who's room he's in. And he explodes.

Buck's face is a mess of dark blue colours, broken and bleeding and swollen.

He's kicked out. The party and house off-limits to him, along with the room. He's glad because goddammit, no matter how hard he tries to push the memories away, somethings always there to bring them back. It had to be that room. He wants nothing to do with that room.

So he sleeps in his rusted car.

Heat isn't a problem, the warm temperatures of the new summer enough to keep him from freezing without the heat of a house. It's cramped. So uncomfortable, sleep hardly even a factor since the move-in. He sleeps in the back, stretching out, but even then his legs need to be curled up to fit, and so many more times than once he's fallen off the leather seating. By the time morning strikes, his back is sore, his neck is cramped, and he can't stand on his feet very long until his legs give out from in under him.

Half of that is from the nasty hangovers that plague his days now, but still, the car isn't the most welcoming home to sleep in.

But that couch wasn't an option. Not in that house. Not yet. Not a chance. He tries, but not even three steps are behind him before the deep sadness takes control from the familiar house, and he nearly collapses. Not that house. Not that damn couch.

He drives to the liquor store. Planning to drown in beer like last night, and the night before that.

God, he's just so sad.

He heads home. Not planning to stay, but he needed a shower. And a shave. Badly. His car didn't exactly have the upgrades for those kind of services yet.

His ma isn't home. She's working at the grocery store up town. But his sister glances up at him as he shuts the front door behind him, attempting to try not to alert anyone of his presence.

"Where have you been? It's been weeks."

He sighs. He knows it's been weeks. Two, to be exact. We wonders when the sadness eating away at him will finally disappear, hoping it will move on to another pathetic drunk. But it's stuck to him. Like glue. Powerful glue, that you just can't seem to unstick.

He gives his little sis a quick answer, a fake smile, and heads down the hallway to the bathroom.

He showers.

He shaves.

He greases his hair, but puts little effort into it.

He's too sad.

When he emerges, there she is, his sister standing in front of him again.

"Where'v you been..." Her voice shaky and soft. Her eyes twinkle with unshed tears. "We've been worried."

He wants to tell her to stop, that she's making it worse, making the sadness deepen and stick to him more and more, but he doesn't. He sighs, and tucks his little sister's hair behind her ears.

"You don't need to worry, kiddo. I'm fine."

But he doesn't know who he's trying to reassure.

He's crying again when he leaves the house. He doesn't want to leave, but he knows he can't stay. But the image of her tear-stained face swarms his thoughts, and it makes him shake, hardly able to stand.

Because goddammit, he's just so sad. So, so sad. And he hates himself for making his little sister cry.

He goes back to his car. Takes it for a drive, in attempt to distract himself. From the sadness. From the guilt. Because he just wants it to go away. He wants to go back to being happy, being funny, being the jokester. But it all seems so far away.

A beer sits in the cup holder. An empty one in the other. Another case rests in the passenger seat.

He drives around for hours, letting the tears fall, waiting for the alcohol to kick in, waiting to be relieved of the agonizing pain that stems from the sticky sadness.

But then he passes that house. Sees the navy pickup in the driveway, sees the football sitting on the porch steps, sees the rusty metal gate, remembering all the times he's jumped it, when he was happy. Memories and thoughts plague his drunken mind, that face appearing in his mind, that laugh, that smile, and then his eyes go back to the house, feeling it's emptiness from out in his car.

A loud crunching sound rings through his ears, and his body is jolted forwards, hitting his beer and spilling it all over him.

He groans. Looks out the shattered windshield.

And the tears come on full blast. Sobs shake his body, his breath comes out in pants, his heart beats rapidly, his body trembles violently. He cries and cries and cries.

Because he's just so, so sad.

And he hit a damn tree.

He's overwhelmed, his emotions taking over. But he pulls himself up, grabs the half-broken twelve-pack from the floor of the car, and busts open the door.

He begins walking, case in his hand.

He doesn't know where he's heading. Doesn't have a clue. He can't go home. He can't go to Buck's. He can't go to that house. And now, he can't go to his car. So he just walks. Lets the sobs wreck him, lets the tears run freely, and walks.

He's got no where to go.

He's Two-Bit.

And he's done.

Because he's just so fucking sad.


	3. He's Scared

_S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Some swearing here and there._

 **He's Him**

Chapter 3

 **He's Scared**

He's scared.

He hasn't gotten up all day. The bed - a mess of tangled sheets and pillows - has become his hideout, hiding away from the world.

He doesn't have a clue what the date is. The only source of telling the time is the digital clock on his nightstand, watching the hours switch by. His blinds are closed, shutting out any sunlight through the window. His door is shut, shutting out anyone who decides to come in.

But his brother does. He hears the creek of the wooden door as it opens sometimes, and the soft but heavy footsteps of his brother walking to him. He brings in food. Takes it out when it isn't eaten. His brother says goodnight, gives him a quick kiss on the forehead, and closes the door behind him once again. He doesn't reply.

He's just too scared.

He gets up sometimes. His bedroom doesn't have a bathroom. But he makes sure when he does pull himself free of the sheets, his brother isn't home. He can't see his brother. He's too scared to look, because he just looks so much like _him_. God, the similarities are endless. He's never noticed it before. He never thought the two were similar, but now, when his eyes take a quick glance at his brother, it's all he sees. So he can't look. It hurts him to look.

He uses the bathroom. Washes his hands. But he can't look in the mirror.

Because he looks like him too. And he knows if he looks at his reflection, he won't be able to hold himself together.

He can't look in the mirror.

Because he's scared. So scared.

And when he exits the bathroom, he keeps his head hung low. Everything in that house reminds him of _him_. Everywhere he looks, he can see him. He's too afraid to look up, because he knows he can barely keep it together.

He walks down the hall, keeps his eyes on the floor, and looks at the doors. Two of them. He's not sure which one he should enter. Not sure which one will be best.

But like always, he chooses the one on the left. He always does, because it keeps him close. The one on the left is so familiar, even with the stuff packed and carried to the basement by his older brother. The room on the right, it's cold. It's tidy and small. He doesn't know how he once slept in there.

He crawls back in under the blankets, stuffing his face into the pillow.

But his heart stops, because he realizes it wasn't his pillow he threw himself into. He's on the wrong side of the bed, and it smells so much like him. He doesn't know how long it's been, but his smell is still there. It's still there, and it hurts him. It hurts so bad.

He scrambles to the other side of the bed. The side near the window. His own side. And he finds his own pillow, and shoves his face into it.

He screams.

He screams and he screams.

He lets the tears run from his eyes, and he screams until his throat is raw.

Because he's just so damn scared.

He wishes he never came into the room on the left. He wishes he chose the one on the right, because the one on the left is just so painful. So frightening.

But like always, he doesn't get up. He _can't_ get up. It's the only thing he has left. If he goes to the room on the right, everything's gone. The room on the right is so cold. So small.

And the room on the left smells like him. He can't leave. He won't leave him.

But god, one day the scent will be gone. He _knows_ that it won't smell like him forever. He knows it won't. And it scares him.

It scares him so much.

His brother comes, the door squeaking as it opens. He carries a plate, the aroma of eggs filling the messy room. He's surprised his brother doesn't comment on the state of it.

The plate sits on the bed table. As he guessed, it's an egg. The way he likes it.

"Try to eat some, kiddo."

The door squeaks again as it shuts.

And he tries. He tries to eat some. Takes a bite of the food, but it doesn't taste the same. He's never had a problem with his brother's cooking before, but it's not his cooking he wants. The egg tastes stale on his tongue. It's disgusting. He throws the fork down on the plate, hears the clashing sound, and buries his head back into the pillow.

He screams.

A while passes, and his door opens again. It creaks. Footsteps come closer, and the plate is picked up from his bed table.

His brother plants a gentle kiss on his head.

He wants to tell him to stop. He wants scream at him, because it feels exactly like how _he_ used to do it. His brother isn't supposed to be gentle. He's supposed to be strong and rough when he doesn't mean to be. He's not supposed to be like _him_.

He wants to tell him to get out. To shut the door and not come back in. Because he's just so much like him.

But he doesn't. He keeps his mouth shut as his brother says goodnight, because he just can't get himself to drive him away. He's all he has left. And no matter how much he tries to, he doesn't want to be alone.

He's scared.

His brother shuts the door, and the silence swallows him. The room is black, it's quietness painful.

And he tries to sleep. He shuts his eyes, focuses on the slumber, but it doesn't come. He tries to sleep, but damn, he's just too scared.

He's scared because when morning comes, it's another day. Another empty day passed. Another inch of his scent gone, another twenty-four hours alone. He's scared because he doesn't know how he's going to get through it. He's scared because he knows he can't stay tangled in the sheets forever. He knows one day he has to get up. One day he has to move on. One day he has to come to terms with all this, and god, he doesn't know how. He doesn't know if he can. He's scared to even think about it.

He's scared to get up. Scared to face the world again. Scared to get up without _him_.

He's so scared.

He glances at the digital clock on his nightstand. It's morning. There's no breakfast on the bed table.

His arm rolls over to the other side of the bed. The side by the door. _His_ side. And it's empty. It's cold, and it's so fucking empty.

He turns into his pillow, and he screams.

His feet hit the floor, and he finds his way to the bathroom.

His brother isn't home.

He washes his hands, doesn't look in the mirror. He can't.

He goes down the hallway, keeps his head hung low. Doesn't look up.

He looks at the two doors. Left and right. Doesn't know which one to choose. Doesn't know which one's best.

But like always, he chooses the left.

Crawls in under the blankets, buries his head into his pillow.

But even his own smells like _him_.

He screams.

Tears flow down his face, sobs wreak his body, screams tear his throat.

The mattress sinks, muscular arms wrap around him, soft words fill his ears.

His brother holds him, lets him scream into his chest, rocks him and tries to comfort him.

But he doesn't look up. Doesn't look up at his big brother's face.

He can't.

He looks so much like him.

He screams.

He's Ponyboy.

And he's so fucking scared.


	4. He's Angry

_S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Reviews are greatly appreciated. Slightly longer chapter ahead. One more chapter after this one!_

 **He's Him**

Chapter 4

 **He's Angry**

He's angry.

He fires his rifle. It hits his target. He feels no remorse. Not now.

Bullets zip pass him, all in different directions. He doesn't even try to dodge them, but they all miss. Of course they all miss.

He fires again, and again, and again, and again. He hits his target. Every time. He feels nothing.

Before, he would shut himself down. Guilt would tear through his insides, fear would wreck his mind - he'd be a mess. The first shot, the first bullet, the first kill, he was. He was a mess. The attack had ended, they had won. But he felt nothing of the sort. He slept in the trenches, nightmares taunted him. He smoked every cigarette he had. He could barely keep it together. He had _killed_ a man.

Sure, back home he beat up people. Socs. He's a good fighter. Tough and strong and cocky. He'd feel accomplished and powerful whenever he'd won a fight. Whenever he beat up a soc so bad they couldn't even walk. He had a rep to maintain, and he maintained it well. But the war, the war's horrifying. It's not some juvenile street fight, not some heated argument between social groups, it's war. It's battle. It's killing. And it isn't easy.

But now, he doesn't care. He reloads his rifle, fires more bullets, watches the bodies go down.

He's angry.

The commander shouts. His voice is deep and rough and loud. Tells his soldiers to retreat. To move back.

He doesn't. He fires his rifle again and again. Over and over.

They're losing. More and more bodies in the same uniform as him drop to the ground lifeless. More gooks appear in front of him, their own guns firing rapidly.

But he doesn't retreat.

The commander shouts his name. His voice serious.

He doesn't listen. Only fires his gun. Hits his target. Watches the body drop.

More bullets fly around him. They miss.

The commander's angry. He doesn't care. He fires.

His own heartbeat sounds in his ears. His breath is ragged, harsh. He doesn't blink his eyes. Sweat runs down his dirt-covered face. His fingers shake as they wrap around the trigger of his rifle. He doesn't twitch as the blast of the bullet rings through his ears. Adrenaline runs through his veins, but all he focuses on is the gooks. The soldiers on the other side. The ones firing at him. The ones who fired at _him_. He's so angry.

He doesn't even feel it when a bullet pierces his right soldier. Doesn't even fret.

He wonders if this is what _he_ had felt. When the gooks bullets shot into him, when the rifles fired off directly at him, when they didn't miss. Did he feel it? Did he feel the blood pouring from his body? Or did he stand there, unnoticed, unafraid?

An arm grabs him. It's strong, pulling him backwards, away from the firing soldiers. He twists in the stranger's grasp, fighting to break free, but he's slow. Everything's fuzzy, his limbs grow weak. He's frustrated.

"Hey! Give it up, Private! Stop it!"

He recognizes the voice. It's deep, urgent. It's Francis. Ross Francis.

His eyelids are heavy, his squirming arms hang by his sides. He's frustrated - his damn eyelids won't stop falling.

"Medic! We need a medic!"

The voice is traveling, far, far away. The deep voice is distorted, slow, _distant._ He's not even sure what else the voice is saying.

His eyelids fight with him, the battle of dominance a tricky one no doubt. He fights back, angry that the stupid things had the mind to challenge him in the first place. God, he's so angry. Those fucking lids on his eyes just won't stay open.

He shuts them. Out of spite.

"No! No, no, no, don't close your eyes! You hear me, Private! Keep your eyes open!"

 _Too late, bozo._ He wants to say to the voice, but it seems his mouth has a fight to pick with him as well.

The voice continues, muffled and deep. It sounds like the speaker has his head shoved into a cushion. He can't understand him, but it's not like he wants to. The guys yelling in his face, his saliva flying from his mouth onto him, and it's annoying. Aggravating. So he doesn't listen to the voice, he shouldn't have to. Why should he listen to the ignorant bastard? He shouldn't.

So he keeps his eyes close, lets the heavy lids win the fight, but he assures them it won't be the last of him. There'll be another battle, and he'll win that one. He'll fucking win.

He's so angry.

The incessant sound of a heart monitor is what opens up his eyes once again.

 _Take that, you bastards._ He whispers to the eyelids.

He didn't mean to whisper. Didn't try to. Even his damn voice is fighting with him now.

He tries to sit up. Puts his weight down upon his right arm, but it doesn't obey. Pain courses through his shoulder like magma, burning the tissue and bone. He groans, falls back down.

He swears. It comes out as another whisper, scratching his throat.

It makes him angry.

The beeping speeds up, and so does his breathing.

"Woah, easy there."

His eyes follow the voice. He recognizes it. It's rough.

Sure enough, there he is, the commander, standing by the foot of his bed. The man doesn't look happy, but he doesn't care. He couldn't care less.

"Good to see your up and well."

He stares, interested in the light beard on his commander's jawline.

"You care to tell me what that was back there?"

He rolls his eyes. Doesn't reply. He's too angry.

"You ignored a direct order from your commander. You realize that, don't you?"

He doesn't reply. Doesn't trust what might come out.

The man continues on. Rants, serious and stern. He's angry, but he wonders if he's as angry as himself. He doubts it.

The commander's voice sounds in the small infirmary, the volume high. But he doesn't listen. Drowns it out. He doesn't care.

The guy could throw him in jail. Give him to the gooks. Shoot him in the head.

He doesn't care. Not now.

"This is about that other soldier, isn't it?"

He looks up.

"The one you requested to be in the same detachment with, am I right?"

He glares daggers.

"Well listen up, Private. Deal with it. Nothing could be done. The gooks had him. Nothing could be done to help him."

"Shut up." It comes out as a whisper. The beeping speeds up.

"One life compared to a-hundred. There were too many gooks, kid. Not enough of us. We _had_ to leave. Had to."

He's angry. He's so angry, because goddammit, he'll be damned if he lets him talk like that. Not that. Not about him. Commander or not, he won't have him talk about his friend like that. Never.

He pushes himself up, puts weight on his left arm. Not his right. His breathing comes out in pants, sweat moves past his brow, his fists clench harshly.

His eyes glare, hard at the man.

The commander eyes him. Sees the emotion. Sees the anger. Watches him fight to sit up. Knows how intent he is on hurting him for saying such things. So the man sighs. Lets his stern look fade away. Gives him empathy.

"Look, I'm sorry about your friend. I am, but you got to move on. Your a soldier. In the army. In Vietnam. Ain't no one going to give you mercy here."

And just like that, he's gone. Walks out the curtain room. Slides the fabric shut behind him.

He yells. Throws his pillow on the floor, tears up his blankets. Slides everything off the table beside him. He screams. It's hoarse, and it hurts like hell, but he doesn't care. Can't hardly feel it. God, he's so angry. So, so angry.

The curtain slides across again. The metal rings scrape across the horizontal pole around the room.

"I heard."

Francis. Ross Francis.

He stares. Tears of frustration hanging off his eyes. Tears of anger.

Francis picks up the pillow. Picks up the items from the table. Fixes his blanket.

Francis sighs.

"The army sucks, man. Bunch of bastards."

He continues to stare. His throat hurts too much to speak.

"They shouldn't have left him - your friend. Shouldn't have."

He wants to tell him to shut up. He wants to tell everybody to shut up. To stop talking. Stop talking about _him_.

"Maybe if someone was there...maybe if another solider was left on the ground with him...maybe it wouldn't have happened."

And he's had it. God, he's had it. Tears flow from his eyes like river, a fast one, unable to be stopped. Francis leaves the room. Shuts the curtain. Lets him cry. Lets him wail.

Because there could've been someone who was there. There could've been another soldier left on the ground. There could have been someone to help him - stop it from happening.

And goddammit, it could've been him.

If only the army had listened. His one request. Just one.

He could've helped him. He would've. God, he would've. If only the army had listened.

He throws the pillow back on the floor.

He tears up the blankets.

Tips over the table.

He cries. Lets the tears run. Lets the heart monitor speed.

He's Steve.

And he's so angry.

So fucking angry.


	5. He was Happy

_S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. Last chapter! Longer than the rest. Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited and followed. It means so much. :)_

 **He's Him**

Chapter 5

 **He Was Happy**

He was happy.

God, he was so happy.

He had moved on. His heart had mended. His tears had dried up. His smile grew wide. His eyes again sparkled.

He was happy.

He had gotten a raise in his job. Gordon thought large of him. Of the other worker too, but man oh man, Gord had really loved him. Loved how he was so great with the customers. Especially the female ones. He loved how he was happy to work - happy to fix the cars, even happy to do the pumps and do the cash. He was his favourite.

And Gordon knew of his story. Knew of his life. Knew his family. Gord tried hard to keep in tabs. Afterall, he had liked him. He really did.

Gordon had knew when his heart was broken. When it was tore in two. Ripped apart.

Gordon knew when his brother had went missing. When his heart ached for his family, his little brother.

And Gordon knew when he was happy.

He was so happy.

That brother of his, back into his arms. That girl of his, put into the back of his heart. Moved on. He was happy.

Gordon gave him a raise. More money. Gord didn't have much as it was, but he liked him. He deserved it.

His friend had graduated. He would have been in the same class, if he hadn't dropped out three years ago. His little brother had been upset, and he understood. He really did. But school wasn't the place for him. Never was. He didn't care, he accepted it. Embraced it. Stayed happy. So when his friend had put on that cap and gown, walked up on that stage and grabbed that diploma, turning the blue tassel to the left, he screamed. He stood up in them bleachers, stood up and waved his hands around, and screamed. Shouted his friends name, over and over and over, ignoring all the glares from others in the crowd.

Because that was his friend down there. His _best_ friend. And he'll be damned if he wasn't happy for him. Happy.

They had celebrated that night. A party. A big one. Invited almost everyone on the east side. Friends from school had come, those met at the gas station had come too, and some just charged on in, seeing the party from the road.

It was a great party. Lots of booze, lots of music, lots of card games. But lets face it, he didn't need booze. He had a buzz that lasted forever.

He made cake, too. Made it himself. The way he liked it. Not many ate it, complaining of the amount of sugar and chocolate icing, but he didn't care. He ate plenty, and so did his friends. Especially the one cracking dumb jokes all night.

He gave his little brother a beer. He felt he deserved it. He might not have been the one graduating, but he had passed another school year, got a shiny report card to go with it. That little brother of his had worked hard. He knew it - saw it. And boy, was he mighty proud.

So happy.

Of course, his older brother wasn't as much. Snatched the bottle right out of that boys hand the minute he laid eyes on it, glaring at his younger brother strongly. He had stepped in. He hated when they fought.

Told his brother to relax. Give the guy a break. He was sixteen, a genius, and good. A good kid. One beer couldn't hurt.

His big brother did. Took a breath, blinked his eyes, and handed the bottle back. Gave a smile too, but not without assuring that the boy would have one, and one only. But it was a victory to his little brother, and the smile on his face stretched ear to ear.

He loved that smile. It made him smile too.

God, that boy made him smile.

He made him so happy.

His friend had handed in his notice on the job they had shared. Wanted to put the diploma to good use. He understood. He couldn't hate the guy. Sure, working without him would be lonely, but he was still happy. He still liked his job. And besides, it's not like his friend was leaving, he was just going to community college. He still practically lived at his house, drank his beer, played his cards, ate his food.

They would always be friends. Best friends.

And he was happy for him. Always happy.

He had met a girl. She was beautiful. Her eyes were piercing blue, bright and dazzling. The lightest he's ever seen. Even lighter than his brother's. It brought out her hair; strawberry blonde. It was just passed her shoulders, soft and gently curled. Her nose was small; her lips wide.

But he loved her smile. It showed her white teeth, perfectly straight. It was a perfect smile, beaming across her face, lighting up a room.

Lori was shy. She'd get embarrassed, especially around the gang, but he loved it about her. Over time, she grew close to everyone. She'd talk more often, laugh more often, and smile. He loved when she showed off her smile.

He had told her to show it more. Show off her pearly whites, let the world see the brightness. The sparkle she had. And sometimes, she did. She'd let loose, just _smile_. And it was because of him. He _always_ made Lori smile that smile he had so adored.

He was just always so damn happy. So cheery.

His eighteenth birthday had come.

It was a good day.

The party was small. Much smaller than that of the graduation celebration, but it's okay. Money had been tight, real tight. His older brother's truck had broken down, and new parts had to be bought in order to get it running again. Some parts they couldn't even afford, so they just had to leave it as it was.

He had promised to fix the truck on his own. He promised his brother it would be up and driving again in no time.

His family had felt bad. Wanted a big party. A cheery party. Lots of booze, lots of music, lots of card games, and lots of people.

But he didn't mind. Didn't mind it one bit.

There was music. Lots of it. Booze was stolen - his friend was an expert at that sport - and there were still card games. He doesn't know how many poker games they had went through. He'd be lying if he hadn't used different...strategies...to help his game status, but he's pretty sure the other players knew. Five guests had attended the party. Five friends. His brothers and girl included.

And those friends, he couldn't ask for anyone better.

They were his family.

They made him happy.

His little brother made his cake. Made it extra sugary. Extra sweet. Just the way he liked it.

Man, he loved that kid.

And everyone ate it. Everyone had a slice; didn't even complain of the amount of chocolate icing. He had a feeling they were only eating the desert for him, but he took it. It warmed his heart. Made him smile.

His life was going so good.

So great.

So happy.

And then that letter came. That manila envelope.

And then he was scared. So scared.

But his family. His friends. He could tell it was hitting them hard.

His big brother. Man, he went to the army recruitment office more times than once. Over and over. Begged the men to leave him. Begged them to just not take him, let him stay home. His brother had wanted to be the protector, wanted to save him. He loved him. He really did. But he couldn't protect him. Not this time.

His friend. The jokester. The clown. He saw how it was effecting him, saw it hitting him to the core. He was strong, yes, but he had a soft center. Cared so much for his friends, his family. He wanted his friend to continue laughing, continue cracking jokes, but he knew it was hard. Knew it was near impossible.

Lori had cried. Cried for days. Cried for hours. He comforted her, cuddled her, told her it was going to be okay. He didn't know. Of course he didn't know if it was going to be okay. How could he? But she needed to hear it. He knew she did.

And that boy. His little brother. With his big sad eyes and those soft rosy cheeks. God, it hurt him so much to leave him. He wanted to stay. Wanted to stay so badly. Curl back up in under the blankets with him, wipe away his tears and stay. Stay forever. But he couldn't. He had to leave. It hurt. It hurt his little brother too. He saw it. _Felt_ it.

His friends, his gang, all had brought him to the station. All of them.

He wished they hadn't. It made it harder - leaving. Watching them as he boarded the plane, watching his little brother cry...it was real hard. But he knew they had come for them. They needed it. Needed that last goodbye. So he wiped his eyes, grabbed his bag, and didn't look back. Couldn't look back.

But then _he_ came around the corner. Wearing the same uniform as him, carrying his own bag.

His best friend.

He was so angry at him. Wondering why the hell he had given up his life. Given up college.

But his answer was always the same.

"I did it for you."

"You really think I'm gonna let you go over there alone?"

And his anger faded. Just like that.

It was hard. The army. The war. Everything about it. Hard.

The training. The hiding. The shooting. The killing.

The nightmares that came after. The guilt and the fear.

And when his bestfriend had been pulled away. Dragged on another chopper. Up, up, up, and away. Away, leaving him alone, strangers by his side. Many as scared as he was.

But he managed. He fought his way through. The letters had kept him going. His little brother, telling him of his exams, telling him of a new book. He smiled reading them. A real smile, even when he didn't think it'd be possible. It was.

After everything, he was still happy.

It was a dangerous attack. Unexpected. Gooks, coming from all directions, guns blazing, bullets zooming past him, soldiers on his platoon going down, their bodies horrifically falling, lifeless.

Explosions. Everywhere. Screams. Everywhere. Blood. Everywhere. Bodies. Everywhere.

His heart raced inside his chest, his breathing fast and heavy. He didn't lose focus. Not once.

Until Jack Hobbert got hit. His buddy. Fellow soldier. A bullet pierced his abdomen, blood oozing everywhere. He watched it. Watched him go down. And he ran. Boy, did he run. Would've made his brother proud.

He was gone before he made it. Hobbert had bled out quickly - he was unable to stop it. No use.

Bullets increased, grenades flew through the air, gooks charged in like no other. Hundreds of them. He ducked his head, covering.

But someone called his name. His commander. Helicopters started up, the blades shouting and whirring.

He looked up, saw the helicopters, saw the commander. Saw the soldiers boarding the aircraft. Knew he had to run. Knew he had to try. And he did. But he was so far, had such a long distance to cover.

A bullet hit his side. Made him scream.

Another hit his leg. Made him go down.

It hurt. God, it hurt. But he was too focused - had too much adrenaline.

He had called for help. Screamed for the commander. For the soldiers. For a medic.

But they didn't come. It was too late. The gooks had surrounded him, racing towards the helicopters, shooting their rifles like water guns.

He watched the helicopters. Watched as they rose. Watched as they flew. Flew far away. Leaving him alone.

And he knew it was it.

It was it.

Quick. A bullet to the head. One final bullet.

But he was happy.

Even in his final moments, thinking about home. Thinking about his big brother, all strong and protective. Thinking about his friend, cracking jokes and creating smiles. Thinking about his boss, how Gordon loved him like a son. Thinking about his baby brother, those big green eyes and those rosy red cheeks. Thinking of his girl, and her pearly white smile. His bestfriend, who gave up his damn life for him.

Even in the end, when the barrel of the opposing force's gun raised to his head, he wasn't afraid. His heart still remained full.

He was so happy.

He was so cheery.

He was Sodapop.

And now, ...he's gone.

But he's happy.

Still so fucking happy.


End file.
